


Spectrum

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Johnlock, M/M, POV Second Person, Pain and reichenfeels, Temporary Character Death, but it's all okay in the end, happy ending yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his friendship with Sherlock Holmes, John Watson experiences a wide range of emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectrum

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own BBC Sherlock, or anything related to it.  
> Not beta'd or brit-picked. Any mistakes are my own.

This is how it begins.

Just a glance. Just one glance, that's all it takes for you to know that this is no ordinary man.

You know you're going to stay the moment your eyes meet as you hand him your phone. And five minutes later as he walks out the door, you wonder if there was ever even a chance that you would be able to stay away.

 

This is what home feels like.

It must be, even though you haven't had a real home in years, because the minute you walk in the door, you feel like you know this place, like you've lived here your whole life.

He knows you're going to stay.

 

This is what fear feels like.

When you're standing there, looking at him through the glass, and the awful feeling creeps into your chest that you were _wrong._ You followed the locator for the phone, and you thought you had it right, but you're in the wrong building and now he might _die_ , and even though you've only just met him, the thought of losing him already scares you to death.

You've killed people before, but it's been a while and you're out of practice. You hesitate for a split second when he brings the pill to his lips before you fire, but you know you made it in time. You know because you _have_ to have made it in time, because already life without this man seems impossible.

You're gone before he even notices you, before you can check to see that he's okay. If he is, you'll know soon enough.

 

This is what relief feels like.

He's alive. That's the only thought you can focus on. He's alive and you might go to jail for what you've done, but it's worth it, because you've saved him.

He's talking now, at his usual mile-a-minute pace, and you know he's deducing who the killer is because that's what he _does_ \-- when he turns and looks at you and stops.

He knows.

He'll tell them, of course. One day is not enough to inspire loyalty in someone (although it feels like much longer, and you seem to have made an exception, shooting someone for him) but now he's walking over to you and saying "Good shot."

And he's alive, and he's not turning you in, and you're together.

And this is _right._

 

This is what determination feels like.

You're completely exhausted. He's got you staying up all night looking through books, and every so often he puts his books on top of yours, and it drives you crazy.

And you know you wouldn't do this for anyone but him.

You wonder how you ever survived without him in your life. And it suddenly hits you that there may be a time when he's not in it anymore. This life is dangerous -- you've found that out firsthand. Or... he seems to grow bored easily. There may come a day when he finally grows bored of you and tosses you away.

You decide to do everything in your power to make sure that never, ever happens.

 

This is what acceptance feels like.

You're dead.

Not yet, not really. But you will be soon. There's no way you can survive this. So when he looks down at you, asking for permission with his eyes to take the psychopath down as well, you simply nod. How could you answer anything else?

You'll die. But you'll die with him. That makes it okay.

 

This is what jealousy feels like.

He's _staring_ at her, in a way that he's never stared at _anyone_ before, and with every second she stands there you can feel yourself losing him a bit more, and it hurts.

You knew you'd lose him eventually. You just hadn't thought it would be this soon.

 

This is what realisation feels like

All the things you've said and done, your entire relationship with him has led up to this one moment, this one conversation when your cries of denial are finally overruled by the voice of reason, which, ironically, turns out to be the very woman you were (are) so jealous of.

Because he still wants her and not you. Only now you understand why it hurts the way it does.

 

This is what rage feels like.

He's gone and drugged you, treated you like one of his experiments, like a lab rat. And you're furious, absolutely furious, until he turns his eyes on you, and you know you'll forgive him because you really have no other choice.

And when you think about it, most of the anger is for yourself, for giving in so easily just because it's _him._

 

This is what desparation feels like.

He's there, up there as you get out of the cab, and you know right then what's going to happen. You try, so _hard_ , to convince him to stay, but maybe he's finally grown bored of you, of life, of everything, because he doesn't listen and the next thing you know he's over and gone and

 

this is what a broken heart feels like.

It's lying there, your heart is, on the pavement, blood covering his face, and you just simply refuse to believe it because that's what you have to do. You _have_ to believe that in a moment he'll open his eyes and laugh and smile and everything will be _fine_ because the alternative -- reality -- is too painful, and you know you'll shatter if you start to accept it.

_He's dead._

The words crash at your skull, pounding rhythms in your brain and not going away, not letting you forget that the brilliant, infuriating madman is _gone, gone, gone,_ and never coming back.

He hasn't got a pulse, and that makes it _real_ , and suddenly it all comes crashing through all at once and if you thought it had hurt before, you were wrong.

They're dragging you away, but you don't notice, because everything's gone dim and you can't breathe.

 

This is what despair feels like.

You're alone. You're back at the flat because, for now at least, you have nowhere else to go.

And you're alone. Always alone now, because he's gone. Except he's not really, because everything, _everything_ reminds you of him. The skull, the unfinished experiments still sitting on the kitchen table, the violin lying on his chair. Everything screams his name, and you can't take it anymore, being here without him. Being _anywhere_ without him.

But you don't have a choice anymore.

 

This is how it ends.

You're at his grave, something you never thought you'd have to say.

You wonder, not for the first time, if it would have been different if you'd arrived at the hospital just one minute, two minutes, five minutes sooner.

You talk to him for a bit. You've always thought it was rather ridiculous, talking to the dead, but now you understand it. Because by talking to him, you can allow yourself to cling to the last, pathetic shred of hope that maybe, by some chance, by some _miracle_ , he can hear you, and he's not dead.

If he were here, he'd laugh at you for being so sentimental. You choke back a sob at the thought.

And then you walk away.

And it's over.

* * *

This is what joy feels like.

Because it's not over, it was never over, and even after three years you still recognise his voice and the sound of his footsteps walking up the stairs.

He explains, and you let him, and then you hit him several times. And then, because it's him and he's alive and he's given you the miracle you _begged_ for three years ago, you forgive him.

It's relief and home and determination and desparation and realisation and rage and a thousand other emotions all at once.

And it's him.

And he's back.

And it's _joy._


End file.
